


Make a Chain; Destruction Cometh

by D20Owlbear



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aftercare, Alternate Universe - Role Reversal, Angel Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale Has a Penis (Good Omens), Aziraphale's a demon and he's pretty good at it thank you, Bottom Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Has a Penis (Good Omens), Crowley Hates the 14th Century (Good Omens), Crowley didn't like them much but didn't hate them enough to deserve THAT, Crowley's an angel and he's still very bad at it, D/s elements, Demon Aziraphale (Good Omens), Dom Aziraphale (Good Omens), Dom/sub, Except when it comes to a very pretty red-head angel, Fucking christ humanity!, Hand Jobs, Impact Play, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Ram Demon Aziraphale, Rated E for angEl thighs, Reverse Au (Good Omens), Role Reversal, Sub Crowley (Good Omens), The Inherent Eroticism of Removing the Bonds of Duty from your Lover, They're both fucked very much thank you, Top Aziraphale (Good Omens), mentions of the knights templar and attempts at disbanding them, they're working within the confines of who they are and what they do, thigh fucking, very very sweet aftercare
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-18
Updated: 2020-07-18
Packaged: 2021-03-05 09:48:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25348738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/D20Owlbear/pseuds/D20Owlbear
Summary: Crowley is not a good angel. He tries so hard, but can't always hold his tongue, there's too much happening and too many questions and–So he keeps himself in check by other means, with chains and cuffs and physical things to keep reminding him that he's got to dobetter. But, of course, his nature is as it always was and that means that these restraints and reminders can't always work, or sometimes they grow too heavy to bear.Aziraphale, a ram demon from the pits of hell and fellow Earth-dweller, is more than happy to ground Crowley in his physical form through other means. Rods and whips and physical touches are all useful, they've found.And this is just one of those times, where Crowley needs the relief and Aziraphale is more than happy to provide it.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 18
Kudos: 136
Collections: MoFu Birthdays, Top Aziraphale Recs





	Make a Chain; Destruction Cometh

**Author's Note:**

  * For [vgersix](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vgersix/gifts).



> Happy Birthday (over a month goddamn late, christ) I hope you like it!
> 
> Crowley design based loosely off of Callus Ran's Reverse AU [Callus Ran's Reverse AU](https://ran196242.tumblr.com/tagged/reverse-omens) which I highly recommend!! (some nsfw images through that link)

23 _Make a chain: for the land is full of bloody crimes, and the city is full of violence._

24 _Wherefore I will bring the worst of the heathen, and they shall possess their houses: I will also make the pomp of the strong to cease; and their holy places shall be defiled._

25 _Destruction cometh; and they shall seek peace, and there shall be none._

—Ezekiel 7: 23-25

* * *

Crowley shuddered and ran a feather-light finger over the collar that sat at the base of his neck. It glowed ethereally for only a brief second and Crowley pulled himself together once more. Chains and collars were in fashion again to some degree, though they were now called livery chains. It gave him some leeway to wear his above clothing. Even though it no longer pinched or chafed at his neck, he disliked it just as much for the attention it drew to the missing livery in question.

He’d always worn it clear of any sort of sign of fealty—it felt too much of a brand like that—even though he wore it of his own volition and could remove it just as easily as he put it on.

Crowley hooked a finger underneath the clasp that fell at the hollow of his neck but sighed and let his hand fall away once more. The chains—thin and light and astonishingly delicate—that ran over his shoulders and arms to connect to thick cuffs of gold jingled like so many coins underneath his clothing. Ever since he’d had these made and first put them on after Sodom and Gomorrah, he’d worn loose and flowing clothing, even if it wasn’t the style of the time.

These days only peasants wore loose clothing, so he often went about calming horses and smiling simply at humans. As pleasant as some of them could be, he preferred to remain silent and let them speak to him instead of the reverse, it was simply… easier that way. Easier to stay detached, easier to keep to the _job as described, Crowley_ , easier to do as he was told and nothing else. Just like a good angel.

The chains weren’t anything special—not technically miraculous or anything of the sort, except that the fine chains never broke no matter their treatment—but they _were_ a reminder. They kept Crowley in check, they reminded him what happened to angels who grew too fond of humans and, most important of all, they kept his mouth shut. They _reminded_ him to hold his tongue lest it become too traitorous for Gabriel’s liking and cause the archangel to think of him as deviant, or worse; rebellious.

So, Crowley eschewed all the comforts he could reasonably get away with. He choked down the smallest meals he could without arousing the suspicion of humans, and only owned things he could carry in a small rucksack—which was much easier for angels with access to miracles great and small than it could ever be for humans—and, above all, he refrained from consorting with any companions. Except for Aziraphale.

The demon had wriggled his way into Crowley’s life, beneath all the defenses he’d constructed long before they came to any Arrangement. Aziraphale was there in Eden, he was there at The Flood, he was there every time Crowley turned around and tripped into some important assignment. Most of the time it wasn’t even to interfere with his work, though sometimes it happened anyway. They’d broken bread together. Literally in the early days, and now metaphorically as well. Ever since Crowley had first put on the chains and made his own vows over them.

He’d spent years trying to keep away but it must have been providence, or something else entirely, that kept pulling him back into the demon’s orbit. Eventually, it had become too much to be a coincidence, and so Crowley had conceded the fight. And then Aziraphale had talked him into rebelling anyway, in small and discreet ways. He’d found Crowley at the lowest of his lows, deep in the bedrock and as lost in everything as he’d ever been before; and instead of harming Crowley or gloating at his weakened foe, Aziraphale had shown far more mercy than Crowley had ever thought a demon capable of.

Aziraphale took Crowley to his home on the outskirts of some village, carefully unlocked the cuffs at his wrists and the collar at his neck, and drew the golden chains from his skin. With their removal, he’d flayed Crowley’s soul barer than he’d been in centuries—Crowley could faintly hear the sounds of the fortresses and towers of rules and defenses he’d built up crumbling. The demon had mantled his terrifyingly white wings over the two of them, to protect Crowley from any onlookers as he broke free from years of self-induced repression. Afterward, Crowley slept for the first time in a very long time, under the watchful eyes of Aziraphale, and woke refreshed and ready to continue on.

Thus began their Arrangement.

A later addition to the Arrangement was the explicit inclusion of assisting with assignments to the original promise to 'lend a hand where it's needed'. It had really always meant the same thing, but it soothed them both to be certain that whatever help was needed would be offered, whether there was work to be done or not.

On the rare occasion, Aziraphale came to Crowley just as out of sorts and needing to be in control of something, even if it was only to cover the two of them in his wings and knowing Crowley wouldn’t leave without his say-so or plaiting Crowley’s hair as he knelt at Aziraphale’s feet. But usually, it was Crowley who needed Aziraphale’s hand, to lift the chains from him and run the pads of his thumbs over the skin underneath, over the burnished smooth facsimiles of scars to restore them to what it had been before.

Slowly, over the years, their Arrangement had become friendly and when kissing and touching was the custom between friends it had even turned sensuous. As customs and society changed so too did their outward greetings, but in private when they lent each other a hand, they progressed onward from simple touches to curling around each other and taking comfort from the closeness. As much as Crowley would have liked to object, the hunger underneath his skin—this defect in his corporeal form surely, the craving for gentle touch—inundated him beyond his ability to resist.

Then, as time marched ever onward, so too did their relationship. They explored each other’s physical forms—Aziraphale directing them and allowing Crowley the respite of being asked only to do things he didn’t object to and praised for following orders he happily embraced—and they took another step together into something sexual. Throughout the years they learned exactly what worked for them and Aziraphale became adept at reading Crowley’s needs and undermining his defenses just as Crowley learned Aziraphale’s moods and masks.

And so, when Crowley appeared before Aziraphale in the middle of his most recent abode to store his collection of occult antiquities—half-way to falling over and desolate, missing his shoes and belts—it was easy enough to pick up just as they always did. Aziraphale opened his arms and Crowley leaned into the demon’s chest, feeling a little like a marionette strung up on fraying threads as he did so. He tried to say something about 54 templar knights in France and fire, but everything felt a bit garbled in his mouth with lips and tongue of lead too heavy to use right.

The soft background noise of Aziraphale’s murmuring filtered through his ears and he could feel infernally warm hands on his back stroking along his spine until the stiffness left and Crowley relaxed, held up by Aziraphale’s hands and body alone.

Then, and only then, Aziraphale pulled his blindingly white wings from the ether and wrapped them slowly around the two of them, like some great bird of prey. Ignoring the physics of the space around them, Aziraphale stooped briefly to gather Crowley into his arms and carried him up into the living space above the first-floor gallery and then on into the bedroom.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said firmly as he set the angel down on the bed, hovering over him with a serene look belying the vague worry Crowley could always feel coming off of him when Crowley let it get to this point.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley replied, his voice strained with the celestial equivalent of exhaustion. Aziraphale only sighed heavily and set Crowley on the edge of the bed, stepping in between his legs and pulling Crowley forward to lean against his body. Thick, deft hands unwove the braids in Crowley’s hair and combed through the waving red locks until Crowley’s breathing was slow and measured once more, his eyes closed as he melted against Aziraphale’s torso. Crowley wrapped his arms loosely around Aziraphale’s hips and his fingertips curled just underneath the waistband at Aziraphale’s back.

“Is that what you’re going to call me?” Aziraphale asked lowly, lazily weaving his fingers through Crowley’s hair until his palm cupped at the base of the angel’s skull and curled his hand into a fist to _tug_. A broken moan was torn from Crowley as his body bent backward to bare his neck and chest to Aziraphale like an offering tied to the altar.

Crowley whined, but paused for a moment and let Aziraphale hold most of his weight, panting slightly at the thought of that demonic strength being used against him. He _wanted_ to be punished, and beaten, and have all the things he wasn’t supposed to want taken from his flesh after he’d been freed from the vestments and chains.

“Yes.”

“You know I’ll have to punish you for that, Crowley.” Aziraphale warned, pulling Crowley up once more until the angel’s nose was flush against Aziraphale’s stomach.

“Yes.”

“So be it.” Aziraphale let go of Crowley’s head and hair, placing both hands on the neck of his loose tunic and _pulled_ , ripping it down the center and revealing all the hidden, golden chains and the collar. Crowley groaned at the show of force just as much as he internally sighed at the loss of a favorite garment. It also left him nearly bare entirely except for the hose tied with bows at his thighs. Already, Crowley’s cock was beginning to stir with interest and fill to hardness.

With no wasted movement, Aziraphale deftly unlatched the collar at the back of Crowley’s neck—letting it sit loose on his shoulders—and then brought Crowley’s arms up for an easier time of unlatching those as well one at a time. If Crowley were to do it himself, he’d take his time to loosen his bonds, reflect on what they were supposed to mean and represent, but he much preferred Aziraphale’s way. This way came with warm hands and someone else to assure him that he was still an angel, that harm wouldn’t befall him, for having taken off his restraints.

“Aziraphale–” Crowley started, but was quickly silenced with a thumb hooked into his mouth, pressing down on his tongue and the rest of Aziraphale’s thick hand curled underneath his chin, trapping him in a different way.

“No, dove, you know the rules.” _Speak with respect, or not at all_. It was similar to one in Heaven, but had the “or” that made it worthwhile, that could set Crowley’s fears to rest. In Heaven he had no choice, but with Aziraphale he’d always have one laid out for him. There was always an _or_ to keep him safe.

Crowley nodded and closed his eyes, letting his lips close around Aziraphale’s thumb and relaxed his tongue under the appendage. With his free hand, Aziraphale pulled the wrist cuffs off Crowley’s arms entirely and laid them in Crowley’s lap before removing the collar from his neck. He lifted the thing, cuffs dangling by thin chains, threw it over his shoulder, and snapped while it was mid-air so it’d land perfectly fine on the table across the room. Crowley hummed in protest at the rough treatment of his restraints but Aziraphale’s thumb pressed down harder and with the grip he had on Crowley’s head waved it back and forth in another warning.

His mouth watered at the thought of biting down on Aziraphale’s finger, not hard enough to permanently hurt Aziraphale, of course, but enough to earn him some of the demon’s ire. He refrained. _Act out and be punished or do as I say and be rewarded_. Crowley had learned the hard way—the mule-headed way, the stubborn way—that Aziraphale knew very well what would be a punishment or a reward to Crowley when he had Crowley at his mercy.

That was why they had this Arrangement, after all. So instead, Crowley hollowed his cheeks and sucked on Aziraphale’s finger, flattening and curling his tongue around it enticingly as he could manage in such an awkward position. Aziraphale only raised an eyebrow at him and smiled in that sharp, bastard way of his that made Crowley tremble without fail. Crowley never much liked to look at _why_ it did.

Slipping his thumb from between Crowley’s lips, Aziraphale grasped Crowley by the shoulders and whirled him around until he was laying face down on the bed, his face pressed into the sheets smelling of Aleppo soap and lavender. Aziraphale removed the torn shirt from Crowley’s arms and ran his hands down Crowley’s bare back, delighting in the shiver it pulled from the angel.

“Now, I understand you’re vexed, with what I don’t know, but you’ve come to me to _handle_ you. Is that right, Crowley?” Aziraphale said lazily, letting his fingers wander along Crowley’s skin and through his hair, then down again to caress the insides of Crowley’s thighs above the ties of the hose until he shuddered again. Once Crowley was trembling, Aziraphale untied the thigh-high garments and stripped them off smoothly.

“Y– yes, Aziraphale.” Crowley’s voice was muffled in the bed but the sound of a sharp smack of Aziraphale’s palm on skin followed swiftly by the sting settling into his arse was not. Crowley gasped loudly and brought his hands up by his shoulders to fist them into blankets, he’d need it.

“Flog, switch, or birch?” Aziraphale asked as his hands moved to the back of Crowley’s thighs and along his arse, warming the skin where the air had cooled it. Crowley swallowed loudly and pressed his face further into the flock-bed and Rennes linen to hide the way his eyes watered at the thought of having to choose. Choice wasn’t something angels were allowed, and as much as Crowley yearned for it, he understood _why_ it wasn’t within his grasp when even simple things like this were too much.

Aziraphale hummed and continued to knead at Crowley’s upper thighs and arse and up further over his lower back and sides. “Very well, I’ll choose for you then.”

The demon stood to his full height and snapped, pulling up the magic to conjure a ‘birch rod,’ twelve whippy branches from a hazel tree tied together with leather thongs at the middle and the base, unbound and fanned out at the top. Aziraphale wasn’t the type one might summon for a maths lesson—counting and numbers were all well and good but his domain was to teach liberal arts, give familiars, incite positive reactions from rulers, and reveal treasures—so he rarely had Crowley keep count or track of the blows, because that wasn’t much the point here.

He tapped the birch rod lightly over Crowley’s thighs and dragged the tips between the apex of his legs and up to his arse, reveling in the sharp inhale that came from the angel on his bed and enjoying the way his body tensed in useless preparation for a blow. Aziraphale delighted in revealing Crowley, as if his inner desires were a gift to be unwrapped from the iron bars of his self-control. The next blow was a little stronger, but Crowley still huffed at the lack of lasting sting.

With methodical strokes and the fanned whip, Aziraphale worked his way up in strength with each consecutive strike. The next two had Crowley tense and his face buried in linen sheets, legs and back stiff until the burn of a thrashing just begun started to settle into his skin. Four more, finally getting up to the sort of strength Crowley wanted from Aziraphale, and Crowley could finally _let go_. His body unfurled and relaxed into the bite of the birch rod.

Aziraphale paused once he saw Crowley near melt into the bed and ran a firm touch down the reddened skin where it was starting to welt from repeated strikes. The demon smiled to himself, pleased when a muffled moan sounded from Crowley as he kneaded his thumb into sensitive flesh. There would be bruises, some from his hands and some from the birch rod, and Aziraphale would enjoy seeing them in the morning and silently memorizing them as he always did.

“Is this what you wanted, dove?” Aziraphale raked his fingernails down the curve of Crowley’s arse, raising temporary welts crossing over those left by their warm-up. Crowley didn’t answer, not right away, still struggling with his _choices_.

“Crowley.” Aziraphale tapped Crowley’s side with a finger and then pulled back as he waited for an answer, not touching him at all. Crowley whined, a soft keening sound, but turned his head to look at Aziraphale.

“Yes,” Crowley rasped, voice thick with whatever thing it was that made this good for Crowley. The way he could slip through the corporeal form he inhabited and fill out all of it, to be grounded so steadily in this reality with the pain while feeling safe and _free_ in ways he never could under Heaven’s restraints.

“Good.” Aziraphale purred, his free hand returning to the small of Crowley’s back with his palm down and his touch firm. He smoothed his hand up between Crowley’s shoulder blades and touched him in the metaphysical space between his wings, hidden as they were. Crowley gasped and his shoulders strained up against Aziraphale’s hand holding him down as if it were nothing. The casual strength the demon had available, and only used against Crowley when he asked for it, sent his heart racing and dried his throat just as it always did.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley croaked, closing his eyes and turning his face up towards the demon, happy to receive his benediction. There was a brief rush of displaced air before a loud crack of the birch rod snapping down onto Crowley’s thighs, followed by a loud shout from the angel as he tried to arch but was constrained once again by Aziraphale’s hand on him.

Crowley settled down into the mattress and let himself fall into the rhythm of the blows raining on the backs of his thighs and his arse as Aziraphale started up again. He wouldn’t have been able to count them even if he’d been made to, not with how he lost himself to the sweet embrace of peace and serenity of being cared for by his demon. Crowley knew he was making noises and struggling to some degree—he could feel himself in that detached sort of way one felt things happening outside layers of thick, comfortable blankets—and he _knew_ that the moment it was all too much, Aziraphale would stop and they’d move on.

Before recent centuries, Aziraphale would stop once Crowley couldn’t take any more and then hold him down until he was ready to leave again. But, at some point in the 900s, things had changed, Crowley spent the night, and they didn’t stop whatever this was between them as soon as the beating was over. Cuddling progressed into something else and they’d figured out just how easily a demon and an angel could fit together, just like humans did.

Somehow, Aziraphale made Crowley feel closer to the divine, more inundated with _love_ than anything else. He took Crowley in hand, held him accountable in the way Crowley felt he ought to be, and absolved him in ways demons shouldn’t be able to. Perhaps it was all a bit ineffable, Crowley tried not to think about it too much, and when his gilded restraints were off he didn’t often have the clear-headedness to devote much attention to it anyway.

“M– mercy,” Crowley moaned, hips rolling against the bed beneath him in his need for friction and relief of another kind. Aziraphale pulled back mid-swing with a breathy laugh.

“From who, Crowley?” Aziraphale asked, lowering the whippy branches to lay across heated skin, half-darkened by thin, striped bruises.

Crowley swallowed heavily and whined as Aziraphale pressed his chest further into the bed with easy strength. “Mercy, your grace!” Immediately, the pressure on his back from Aziraphale’s hand let up and Crowley remembered how to breathe, the ache in his ribs grounded him with every inhale and Crowley moaned again softly, lips parted and eyes closed.

Aziraphale banished the birch rod back to where it came from and leaned down with a smirk, covering Crowley’s lips with his own in a heated kiss. Crowley pushed himself up to his elbows and moaned lowly when Aziraphale licked into his mouth.

“C’mere,” Aziraphale growled into the kiss, his hand wrapping around the back of Crowley’s neck and pulling him up and off-balance. Breaking the kiss with a devious smile, Aziraphale maneuvered Crowley as if he weighed nothing, throwing him onto the bed once more. Crowley hissed in pain as he landed on his back, the soft linen feeling suddenly rough on his abused backside.

Aziraphale lay on the bed with a self-satisfied flop and pulled Crowley in close with an arm wrapped around his back until they were chest to chest and crowded together on the bed. Aziraphale initiated another kiss, soft and slow, and pulled Crowley halfway on top of him so he could reach around and knead lazily at the angel’s arse. Thick, strong fingers pressed into welts and bruises striping Crowley’s backside making him moan languidly into the kiss and snake his own fingers into Aziraphale’s curling hair, quickly finding the horns curling tight against his skull and hidden by fluffy curls.

Their legs tangled together as they kissed, and without any need to breathe they only broke apart to come back together again for the sweet sensations of teeth and tongue and lips moving together. Sooner rather than later, with their legs twining together and their hips flush against each other, Aziraphale loosened his braies enough to pull his cock free from the confines of his clothing and they gasped into each other's mouths as their steadily filling cocks brushed.

Without any haste, Aziraphale reached between their bodies and stroked along Crowley's length, humming into his mouth and smirking enough that it nearly put a stop to their lazy, wet kissing for how pleased he was. He murmured praise against angelic lips, voice filled with his devotion and his palm "polishing the holy rod" he'd been gifted. Crowley, of course, groaned in exasperation at that, but the noise was quickly usurped on his tongue by a keening moan as Aziraphale made use of his large hands to include himself in his grip. Their cocks slipped together beneath Aziraphale’s hand and Crowley's fingers wandered along the demon's sides, trailing over curves soft with decadence and occasionally playing with pebbled nipples to hear Aziraphale’s breath hitch.

"Aziraphale," Crowley whined, but quickly corrected himself with, "Your grace!" His face a perfect plea for more, for all the things he couldn't ask for out loud, even like this, but Aziraphale knew his angel in and out and all his deepest, secret desires. Aziraphale growled in reply and flipped them on the bed so that Crowley was flat on his back beneath him and he was free to partake of sucking bruises over his collar and throat. Privately, Aziraphale liked to think it helped, the few extra days of his bruises shielding Crowley from the weight of the golden restraints over his skin. They might not, they didn't talk about things like that, it was safer, but that didn't mean Aziraphale didn't know nonetheless…

"Legs up, dear boy," Aziraphale tapped his palm lightly over Crowley's hip and bit down on his neck when the angel hissed in pleasure at the bruises and welts lighting up under Aziraphale's touch and the way heat welled up beneath the demon's teeth. As much as Crowley relaxed into the initial beating, it was the sharp ache he liked best of Aziraphale's hands and fingers pressing into muscle-deep bruises and working them further in.

Crowley raised his legs up to Aziraphale's shoulders, his lips parted slightly in a pout as he breathed heavily, watching Aziraphale with wide, innocent eyes. Which, of course, made Aziraphale roll his own, fond of his easily-debauched angel but not falling for it in the slightest. Aziraphale shifted Crowley's legs so they were both against a single shoulder and crossed at the ankle.

"Oh, pretty principality," Aziraphale breathed, all the lust and greed that carefully hid the seeds of love in him seeped into his voice as he ran a gentle hand lightly over the planes and dips of Crowley's ribs and side. "You're a wanton whore, just for my eyes, _my_ pretty angel."

Crowley's breath hitched at the possessiveness of Aziraphale's words juxtaposed with the softness of his touch. He reveled and enjoyed the heated stretch of the back of his thighs from how Aziraphale nearly bent him in half and kept his legs straightened out, the demon's thick arm wrapped around his legs just above his knees and flush against his torso. His cheeks flushed and Crowley turned his head to look away from the bright, piercing gaze of the ram demon that felt a little too much like being Known and Seen for the angel's comfort.

"Oh come now," Aziraphale crooned, returning his free hand to knead along the tantalizing curve of Crowley's arse and further down to his thighs. Every whine and unconscious shift of Crowley's body at his touch was an electric shock of Pride and Lust down Aziraphale's spine, especially when he danced the tips of his fingers down the seam of Crowley's thighs, made tight by the grip Aziraphale kept on his legs. "You can't think yourself unattractive, no matter the coarse cloth you put yourself in. I'm sure plenty of men and maids alike vye for your attentions…"

Crowley only keened quietly in response and covered his face with his hands, sure the red across his face would burn him up.

"Hands on the bed." Aziraphale commanded lazily with a sharp smack to Crowley's bottom, which made the angel yelp and his hands fly to return to gripping tightly at the sheets even as he wriggled his hips against Aziraphale's. "You shameless thing, writhing on a demon's bed, letting him possess you." Aziraphale crooned, voice low and growing more ragged by the second until he couldn't take it anymore and parted the tunic and long doublet he wore, dark and rich with hidden color of understated but obvious riches, in the front down the middle to make room for his thick and heated cock to press against the backs of Crowley's thighs, skin to skin.

Aziraphale turned his head and scraped his teeth over one of Crowley's calves and let his fingers grow slick with demonic magics pulled up from Hell. He ran his fingers between the cleft of Crowley's arse and up along his perineum—only teasing the angel briefly with gentle pressure along the ring of muscle of his ass—and pressed between Crowley's thighs, spreading the oil between where they were held tightly together.

Crowley whined and breathed raggedly, "Azir– your grace! Please, please, I need more."

"More than this? My darling bawd, how fulsomely lewd of you." Aziraphale curled his fingers to sink his nails into Crowley's inner thigh and scratched welts into the sensitive skin, grinning at the way Crowley's back arched and how his knuckles lost all color with how hard he gripped at the sheets on his bed.

"Yes! Yes, you fiend!" Crowley moaned, his head thrown back in a halo of red hair spread out across the pillow and face pulled into a rapturous grimace.

"Well, if the lady demands," Aziraphale purred and lined himself up to press his cock between Crowley's thighs, sliding in with a glide as close to heaven as Aziraphale was willing to go. Reaching around with his still oil-slick hand Aziraphale lazily curled around Crowley's shaft, pumping slowly in time with the movements of his hips. The hitch of Crowley's breath at the pressure of Azirpahale's hand and the pad of his thumb underneath the head of the angel's cock and the low, abiding moan at the drag of Aziraphale's prick along the underside of his balls was nothing short of divine choir.

If, of course, Aziraphale liked such things. In his opinion, Crowley was much more attractive an option, more tempting a lure, than divinity had ever been.

"Crowley," Aziraphale murmured, barely breathing at all to keep himself in check as Crowley writhed and bucked his hips and fell apart under his fingers as he watched and greedily drank the sight of it in, "My dear. Fuck, darling, you _are_ beautiful. My gorgeous dove, I love seeing you like this, beneath me and wanton under my hands. I would keep you here forever, my dear, tied to my bed to take my pleasure in and bring you all sorts of pleasure yourself until you fell apart at the seams. Until you were insensate with bliss and saw nothing but the stars.

"I'd hide you away for only my eyes," Aziraphale continued, speeding up his hand on Crowley and his own thrusts even as he spoke and his voice grew thick with rapidly building arousal, quickly feeling drunk on Crowley's lust-hazed gaze on him, blushing for all the praises that made the angel's hips buck up and fuck into Aziraphale's fist. "I'd make you mine, no matter how the armies of Heaven sieged at my door."

Crowley arched and cried out as he came, spilling over Aziraphale's hand and his own stomach, his legs and body trembling through it. Aziraphale gasped moments later and came with a few erratic thrusts, his come painting the inside of Crowley's thighs. They caught their breath and Aziraphale leaned forward, absently enjoying the way Crowley's body was so pliant underneath his, bending in half so he could take his lips and an unhurried, contented kiss.

Letting himself fall to the side—after helping Crowley lower his legs down to the bed and relax—Aziraphale gathered Crowley up against his chest, curling around him, chest to the angel's back and knees tucked up underneath Crowley's. After a few seconds of thought he willed his clothing across the room and hung up so he could take advantage of Crowley's skin on display. His angel was an anxious thing and as much as he kept his chains and restraints as a reminder to be a "good angel," if he wasn't held tightly for long enough he started to go a bit spare. So, ever happy to keep an angel bound (not that Hell ever knew that "tethered to the earthy plane in order to force it to experience earthly sins and difficulties" meant like _this_ ) Aziraphale had taken to holding Crowley as they slept.

Aziraphale wasn't really one for sleep, he much preferred other vices such as gluttony and even the occasional spot of envy—for rich fabrics and comfortable cushions and expensive books most often—Crowley liked it. He wasn't allowed to, of course, sloth was a sin after all and angels didn't _need_ to sleep, so it wasn't an option. Except when he had to break free from his reminders and restraints and be as true to himself as he could stand to be, which meant that Aziraphale would be here to provide that too.

A beating to ground him in his corporeal body, sex for the pleasure and relief of it, and a bed to sleep in wrapped up in protective arms with warm blankets to slough off the stresses of the evils of the world. Aziraphale carefully didn't think about the irony of such an Arrangement, a demon protecting an angel as it slept and forgot about evil, even for a handful of hours that always felt far too short.

But Aziraphale let himself doze, petting slow and gentle along Crowley's skin when he was awake enough to memorize the scent of Crowley's hair at the nape of his neck, and comparing the scars and starry freckles across his skin with the mental maps he'd built of the time before to see what was new and what sorts of careful questions he should ask next time…

Just like always, the sun came up too early and filtered through gauzy curtains covering Aziraphale's windows. Aziraphale kissed along the back of Crowley's neck and shoulder, muttering soft things he'd never admit to under his breath until the angel woke up and seemed to deflate at the silent realization that it was back to normal. They only ever had one night every couple of centuries like this, it was safer that way, the both of them knew it. But that didn't make it any easier to bear.

Silently they stood from the bed and Aziraphale guided Crowley across the room to a basin of water he snapped into steaming, procuring a soft cloth to clean away the remnants of their night from Crowley's skin. And then he helped Crowley dress. First, the chains.

The collar went on first, sitting on top of smooth skin on top of collar bones and closed over the vertebrae of the back of Crowley's neck. Every thin line of chain from the collar to the cuffs was straightened with care and whispers of kisses were placed on the inside of Crowley's wrists before the thick cuffs closed over them.

After, he followed with Crowley's clothes. Subtly magicked whole and to be sturdier and softer than the peasant's garb he'd shown up in. Even if Crowley couldn't justify the indulgence, he wouldn't get _rid_ of the clothing. Hopefully. Unless he saw someone in greater need than himself, Aziraphale sighed to himself. Well, perhaps he'd keep it for a few months at least, and know that Aziraphale cared as much as he was able to.

Once Crowley's clothes were back in place and Aziraphale had miraculously produced shoes and belts for him to wear, they drew close to the doorway that led outside. They paused, Crowley's hands held in Aziraphale's. They did not kiss no matter what they wanted, but Aziraphale leaned in and pulled Crowley down to rest his forehead on Aziraphale's own so that their noses bumped together in something that was, perhaps, more intimate than a kiss. An angel and a demon traded the air in their lungs for a few breaths before breaking apart and Crowley left into the world once more. His armor of chains hidden carefully underneath his clothing and Aziraphale watching him as he went, already counting down the days until he came back.


End file.
